The Broken Ones
by Freya Ishtar
Summary: When Hermione crosses paths with Fenrir's most recent victim, she knows she's in over her head. After all, if Bucky Barnes was an unstable super-soldier before, she would be insane not to be terrified of what he'll become after. But how can she stop hunting Fenrir when her quest for revenge has given her post-war life purpose? *Triad X-over Fic* ON HOLD
1. Misremembered

**Author's Notes** **:**

 **1)** This fic is a canon-divergent AU for _**both**_ verses. Some elements from the canon storylines will still have taken place/be present, others will not.

 **2)** May contain themes such as, but not limited to, smut, violence, and possessive behavior **.**

 **3)** Please understand updates to my fics are sporadic. This is because while, admittedly, I do have a lot of fanfictions, I am a published author irl & currently need to divide what time I am able to devote to writing between fanfictions & original fiction works.

 **4)** Do not be wary of the number of new fics I'm starting. There is no intention of leaving any of my fics, or of any new fics interfering with already posted ones. _However_ , as I am updating sporadically as it is, it's more fair to put the opening chapters of all waiting fics out for readers to sample, so that you can decide which stories merit the investment of waiting for updates, and which you simply are not interested in reading any further.

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 ***Fenrir Greyback Fancast: Jason Momoa**

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 **Disclaimer** **: I do not own** _ **Harry Potter**_ **, or** _ **Marvel Cinematic Universe**_ **, or any affiliated characters.**

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 **Chapter One**

 **Misremembered**

No one really knew what had happened to Hermione during her captivity following Voldemort's defeat. They knew the facts . . . .

Her broken wand had been discovered on the battlefield.

Fenrir Greyback had been glimpsed carrying an unconscious brunette away from the chaos, though no one had managed to catch him.

She was finally rescued from a tumbledown cabin in the woods four months later, seemingly dazed and covered in bruises, scratches, and bite marks not-quite deep enough to break her skin.

Fenrir Greyback was nowhere to be found.

Given these fleeting glimpses of reality, and how distraught she seemed when she came out of her apparent fugue state and asked for her captor, only to be informed he was missing, Ministry officials and Healers could only draw one conclusion. Hermione Granger was suffering from what Muggles referred to as Stockholm syndrome.

It was more than clear she'd been tortured, she was told, since the bites must've been intended to hurt her without turning her. The scratches and bruises were clearly from forced sexual encounters, they said.

She could not reconcile this with her memories of those four months.

She remembered things differently, didn't she? Yes, yes, of course she did. But the softer side she'd seen of the werewolf was an act, or the work of her own imagination. That _had_ to be it. They _had_ to be right. The change in dynamic between herself and her captor had been nothing more than her psychological need to survive her ordeal. Her friends would _never_ want to lead her astray on something so important.

And she could not have harbored any _true_ feelings for someone capable of such terrible crimes as he was. She didn't love him, she _couldn't_!

For the next two months, Hermione struggled with her memories, with incorporating into her recollections what she knew must be the truth of the situation.

Fenrir Greyback was many things, stupid not among them.

He'd wanted her, she'd known that since Malfoy Manor, so he'd jumped at the chance to make her his. He'd brought her somewhere secluded, where she was defenseless, so that she had no choice but to rely upon him—isolation. Convinced her he genuinely cared and manipulated her into seeing things between them the way he did—indoctrination.

She even fought the theories her friends forced on her about _the truth_ of her captivity. The only thing missing was that she did not lash out against the authorities hunting Fenrir. She always understood that he was one of Wizarding Britain's Undesirables, and would be until he was captured or killed. She knew that no matter what had transpired between them in that cabin, they would always be on opposite sides of the law.

Perhaps that was why she struggled to make sense of these two disparate notions—the first being what she recalled, the second what she was told—of what had happened to her.

Harry and Ron no longer recognized their best friend. For days at a time, she would put herself into isolation, attempting to block out everything else as she forced her mind to accept the more sensible version of events. Each time, she felt she had gotten a little better . . . . until the dreamed recollection of some loving moment, or some steamy night, would surface and send her right back to square one.

Then came the day when she felt she'd finally conquered her fanciful, wayward memories. She'd, once more, put herself into isolation, though this time she did not reemerge until she could scarcely recall her version of events. Yet, it was still not quite enough. He'd held her hostage, repeatedly wounded her, forced himself on her. There would be _no_ peace for her until she made him pay.

That was when she _knew_ she had to find Fenrir Greyback. Find him, and put him six feet under before anyone else robbed her of the opportunity.

And, just like that, Hermione Granger's life had purpose in the wake of all that had happened to her.

* * *

Hermione frowned, lowering her wand as she stared out into the dense thicket of unfamiliar trees before her. She knew by now that Fenrir was aware she was after him. She'd tracked him to the woods of Upstate New York, and had lost him. Again.

Pursing her lips, the wild-haired witch emitted a surprisingly growl-like sound from the back of her throat—a habit she'd developed since her rescue, which no one had seemed able to break. Even reminding her that she sounded like a werewolf, herself, only earned Harry an angry, sidelong glance.

She sighed and shook her head. Perhaps it was best she'd slipped off to the States by herself. She _needed_ to do this on her own, and she was concerned Harry would try to stay her hand, insisting they bring him back to stand trial for his crimes.

She knew he had her best interests at heart, but that didn't make his way right. And she also didn't need his constant hovering making her feel as though her ordeal had turned her into some shrinking violet who needed protection. She'd become versed in wandless magic as best she could since her captivity. But if she had to remind anyone, _one_ more time, that she'd been the victim of her _own_ psyche based on circumstances—a thing which could, literally, happen to anyone, it did not make her weak, or incapable—she thought she just might go a little bit mad.

Though, sometimes, she wondered if she was proving this to everyone else, or to herself.

Fenrir's trail disappeared into these woods. So often this happened that she sometimes wondered if he was simply good enough to keep evading her by chance, or if he was toying with her. If it was the latter, he'd be unpleasantly surprised to find that she would no longer ever be _un_ armed.

Shaking her head once more, she raised her wand, recasting her tracking spell. With any luck, she thought, a second go would pick up something the first had missed.

And it did, only . . . not quite what she hoped for.

She moved, almost mechanically, to follow the direction in which her magic pointed. There was an interruption in his energy . . . he'd encountered someone. Hermione focused, trying to read the information her spell gleaned.

An altercation seemed a more appropriate term than an encounter. A fight . . . that was why the energy broke off, Fenrir had cast a charm to block anyone from tracking him after that, so it wasn't only directed toward her.

But that meant whomever he'd tangled with was still here, and, if the register of energy from her spell was correct, he'd left them alive.

The full moon was a handful of nights away; the brightness of the last night of the waxing half-moon and stars unencumbered by the pollutions of the city, however, provided enough light that she could see . . . . Not incredibly well—on a cloudy night in an area like this, she knew she would not be able to see her hand in front of her face—but she did not want to draw undue attention to herself by casting _Lumos._

She also wasn't completely convinced that Fenrir wouldn't use the opportunity to get the drop on her, making it seem he wanted to vanish and then circling back to catch her by surprise. He'd made no moves against her, no matter how close she'd gotten to catching up to him.

It made Hermione suspicious that he seemed to be waiting—for what? She hadn't the foggiest.

Her eyes adjusted, bit by bit, as she made her way through the trees, her wand at the ready. Though there was no easy way to pick up a foot path through the wild grass, she eventually came upon patches of earth peeking through the night-darkened greenery.

Frowning, she lowered to one knee and sifted her fingers through the soil. It was freshly overturned, and—now that she was closer—she could see spots in the grass that looked trampled. Heavy footfalls had not just come through here, they'd stomped, dragged, and kicked.

Hermione couldn't help but smirk. This felt like the closest she'd gotten in her months pursuing Fenrir. "Promising," she said, muttering the word under her breath.

At the very least, this person he'd scuffled with was close, and could probably tell her in which direction the werewolf had run off. She tried not to let herself get giddy with the thought of finally catching up to him.

That notion always disappointed her; she'd wait until she actually had him in her sights to feel any sort of joy.

Frowning, she turned her head toward the sound of . . . . Was that a fire crackling somewhere nearby? As she moved her head, she caught a glimpse of something on the ground, being lightly tousled through the grass by the faint gusts of wind blowing through the forest.

She moved toward the object, slow and cautious, before her fingers closed around the hard cloth and lifted it for inspection. Arching a brow, she turned the nondescript, dark-red baseball cap in her hand.

There was a chance this belonged to Fenrir's new playmate, as did the campfire she heard—and now smelled. She couldn't imagine anyone else was within earshot of this area and hadn't come to see what the commotion was about.

Then again, in the woods at night, perhaps coming to see what a commotion was about wasn't a bright idea. She was counting on the fact that most people ignored bright ideas in favor of sating curiosity.

Gripping her fingers into the cap, she rose to her feet and started for the crackling sound on careful, measured footfalls. Her wand at the ready, still, she made her way around and between trees before coming upon the simple campsite in the distance . . . .

Bare bones, even by Muggle standards—a hastily thrown together fire pit and a sleeping bag which had seen better days. Yet, even from where she stood, still a few meters off, she could see that it was empty.

A scowl pinched her features. She'd not heard the fire's crackling when she'd first been inspecting the combat zone . . . perhaps her mysterious camper had lit it and gone off to clean himself up from the fight? She had come across a stream nearby.

But no, she knew she didn't have that kind of luck. _This_ was a trap.

Hermione spun on her heel, wand raised, cap still clutched in her free hand.

The Muggle stared back at her, dressed plain enough, yet his posture was tense. He did not assume a defensive stance, but he didn't need to. Something in the set of his broad shoulders told her the tension in him was not a response to her presence, per se, but that he _always_ stood at the ready. A man of military training, perhaps?

She could see his eyes narrowing as he assessed her similarly—he had to be, there was no other way to describe the manner in which he scrutinized her. Though both arms appeared to hang limp at his sides, she noted the glimmer of a blade's metal in his right hand.

He stood at, what? Six foot, by American measurements, if she was guessing correctly, and had dark hair that fell past his chin, shielding much of his expression, though it didn't hide that he was in dire need of a good shave. There was a chance he counted on his imposing and unkempt appearance to frighten her off, because he did not advance.

She thought . . . no. He wasn't trying to scare her off, he was waiting for her to attack.

Whoever this man was, he had _no_ intention of fighting her unless she initiated.

Hermione lowered her wand, her gaze on his all the while. Though in her periphery, she noticed the minute easing of that tension in his form.

"So . . ." he said, his voice tumbling out, rough and gravelly, as he gave her a quick once-over. "You're not like the other one, then?"

Her brows shot up. Yes! This was exactly what she'd hoped for! But she couldn't jump ahead. This man had fought Fenrir Greyback, yet looked no worse for wear.

She needed to find out all she could.

"The other one?" she echoed, watching with intentionally visible wariness as he bent to slip his knife into the ankle of his boot.

Standing straight, he dropped his own gaze to the wand—lowered, but still clutched in her fingers—and nodded toward it. "The other one running around these woods carrying a magic _fucking_ wand."

Hermione couldn't help but snicker at the disbelief in his tone. Clearly he knew they worked, he just couldn't make sense of the notion. Not a wholly unusual response from Muggles when it came to witnessing magic for the first time. Yet, he didn't sound nearly _as_ surprised by the circumstances he'd found himself in as she expected one in his position would be.

"No," she said, conviction in her voice, which brought his gaze back to hers. "I'm not like him, I'm _hunting_ him." She noted his gaze had flickered over his cap before he'd met her eyes, just now.

Dropping her attention to her hand, she watched her own movement as she lifted it and held it out toward him. "You can have this back."

He tipped his chin back a little, again with that assessing look, observing her from behind the mussed strands of dark hair hanging in his face.

When he seemed reluctant to draw near, Hermione sighed, her small shoulders drooping. Putting away her wand, finally, she waved the cap at him.

The man moved toward her at such a measured pace, she could swear she noticed the grass growing in the time between his steps.

Exasperated, she said, "Good Lord, it's not as though I'm going to bite you."

His eyes flashed wide and he halted.

A heartbeat passed before Hermione understood. "Oh—oh, _God_! He bit you?" Fenrir had actually not bitten _anyone_ he'd crossed paths with as he'd fled from her all this time, leaving her a bit shocked that he'd done so now, but then it typically wasn't difficult for a werewolf to overpower the average, non-magical, someone and be on his way.

This soldier must've _really_ put up a fight.

He set his jaw as he tensed, once more. "Tell me, again, that you're not like him."

She swallowed hard, nodding as she repeated, "I'm _not_ like him."

The man lifted his left hand—which she could now see was gloved, though his right was not, and she wondered if he'd lost the right glove in the altercation—and pushed up the sleeve of his jacket on his right forearm. There, the crescent shaped beading of blood, the crimson drops streaking his skin, gleamed in the illumination from the night sky.

She tried to control a gasp, but still a sharp spurt of air sounded as she inhaled. "What—what's your name?"

He frowned, as he tugged his sleeve back down. "Bucky. Can I hope that you're going to be able to make sense out of this for me?"

Again, she nodded, but she could tell that the sudden sadness in her expression did not go unnoticed by him. "Bucky? My name is Hermione, and I'm—I'm sorry, there's no other way to tell you this . . . . That man was a werewolf."

Even with the wands, and the bite, and whatever else had happened during Bucky's fight with Fenrir, Hermione expected his disbelief. She expected him to laugh at her and call her crazy, and demand she leave his campsite.

Instead, those broad shoulders drooped and he tipped back his head to eye the stars peeking at them through the open patches in the forest canopy. "Bitten by a werewolf. Why the fuck not?" he asked no one in particular with a sigh and a short, quiet chuckle.

When he lowered his head, he nearly laughed again at the perplexed expression the petite English girl before him wore.

"You're . . . not going to go on and on about how werewolves don't exist and I'm clearly a mad woman?"

His brows shot up and he pursed his lips a moment before he responded. "We'll just leave it at 'I've seen a lot.' You said you're hunting him, right?"

Hermione nodded. Blue . . . his eyes were blue, now that he was close enough, she could make out their color in the sparse illumination.

Finally he took his cap from her fingers as he nodded back. "Then I'm going with you."

She only stared up at him for several heartbeats. This . . . this hadn't at all gone as she'd thought it would, yet somehow, she found herself nodding one last time as she said, "Okay."


	2. Jagged Mirrors

**Chapter Two**

Jagged Mirrors

Fenrir slowed to reluctant halt, pressing his back to the nearest tree as he caught his breath. That was too close . . . damn that . . . that creature, whatever he was, who'd nearly subdued him!

He'd thought he'd been imagining it when his senses told him the man he'd just fought wasn't entirely human. Hadn't he learned by now _not_ to deny the things his senses told him?

Sighing, he sniffed at the air. She was close, but his ears told him she was not drawing any closer. In fact, if he could gauge properly—relying on the very awareness he'd just questioned—she was at the bizarre creature's campsite!

Oh, well, that certainly wasn't anywhere he wanted to be, at least not until he could get her to see reason.

He still could not understand where her thinking had turned her against him; where she decided they were enemies, again. . . . Where she decided she hated his _so_ much that she wanted him dead by her own hands.

An angry frown curving his lips downward, the werewolf struck the tree with the side of his fist. The feeling of the wood splintering from the impact was oddly satisfying.

He lifted his hand, inspecting the damage. Minimal blood. He could feel that his body was already healing the damage from his scuffle with that man-shaped thing.

Fenrir looked down at himself and lifted the hem of his bedraggled shirt. His scar— _the_ scar—was trying to smooth itself over, again. Gritting his teeth, he dug in his claws, tearing the jagged line anew. His body never healed jagged cuts entirely, but whenever he was freshly wounded it certainly tried.

* * *

 _"You're a mess. What happened to you?"_

 _Fenrir looked up to see the fuming witch, her hands on her hips and her expression stern. He couldn't help but chuckle. He expected to return to find her gone, or return to an eruption of anger over being left alone. But, of course, her reputation proceeded her—she'd clearly worked out that she would not get very far in such an unfamiliar and hostile environment, and had managed to take care of herself while he was away._

 _"Full moon, remember?"_

 _Her brows pulled together as she waited for him to elaborate. Yet, before he could, she held up a silencing hand. "Of course I remember, but_ any _moon phase only hangs in the sky for three days you were gone for six—" She cut her words short as the delicate skin beneath her eyes crinkled in a thoughtful expression._

 _Fenrir mirrored her expression as he waited, now, for her to work it through._

 _"You left because the full moon was coming, and if you weren't far from here when it happened, you'd have hurt me. That's . . . ." Hermione shook her head, forcing a sniffle as she struggled with her own disbelief. She'd have thought he_ wanted _to bite her. He could certainly bite her any time of the month, but a bite during the full moon was a guarantee she would turn, while anything else was perhaps sixty/forty, at best. "That's what took you the extra days, traveling."_

 _He nodded, aware that anything he said would only make her more conflicted, not less._

 _"I thought . . . I thought you wanted me to be like you."_

 _Though, he didn't really want to respond, the way her voice trembled pulled at him. She was such a strong little thing that any time she let him see weakness, he felt drawn to do whatever she required._

 _"I do," he said, nodding once more. "It is what I've wanted since the moment I stumbled across you. But I've come to understand better since then."_

 _Again, her brows pinched together, and a small laugh—that tiny, self-deprecating one she uttered whenever she failed to understand something—edged her voice. "What?"_

 _"I had time to think. Though, I'm not sure I would've decided differently, except that you . . . you called me Fenrir before I left."_

 _Hermione repeated herself. "What?"_

 _With a short, rough chuckle, he nodded in agreement with her confusion. "For weeks I've had you here, and all the while, you called me Greyback. But, before I left . . . you called me Fenrir."_

 _"Oh." She straightened up a little, a faint wash of color tinting her cheeks. "I . . . I hadn't realized."_

 _Shrugging his broad shoulders, the werewolf nodded, again. "I know, that was sort of the point." He didn't pause, but he could tell by the way her expression shifted that she understood—she'd stopped doing something that kept distance between them. "I realized that while I do want you to be like me, I only want that if you_ ask _for it."_

 _She fell quiet, chewing at her bottom lip as she watched him._

 _He turned away—not that there was much privacy in the one-room-and-a-_ magically _-working-bathroom cabin, but he'd allowed her a curtained-off nook for the illusion of such—and stripped off his tattered and bloodied shirt to toss it into the sink. He was very stringent about keeping what few articles of clothing he had, no matter the condition, she'd noticed._

 _He probably didn't have much choice, in that he_ had _so few articles of clothing._

 _As he walked toward the cupboard to grab the soap and washboard, she noticed spots of crimson on his midsection. "You're bleeding," she said, thoughtlessly._

 _Lifting his arms as he lowered his gaze in self-examination, he nodded. "So I am."_

 _Scowling, she pursed her lips at his flippant brush-off. "No, I mean,_ why _are you bleeding? Shouldn't you have already healed from whatever marked you up during the full moon?"_

 _He shrugged and simply went back to the task at hand. "Messy wounds take longer. This was quite the jagged mess."_

 _Her shoulders drooped as she watched him. After a moment of strained silence, she reached for her beaded bag . . . . Without her wand, the magic that gave her access to everything she stored in there waned, letting her only reach smaller items, but she could still get to some essentials._

 _She withdrew her tincture of dittany and the last rolled wad of fresh bandages—a miracle, really, as she thought she'd wasted them all patching up Harry and Ron. "Come here."_

 _"Why?" He didn't even look up from laundering his raggedy shirt._

 _"Put that down and come_ here _."_

 _At the sharpness in her tone, he switched off the tap and looked over his shoulder. He only stared at the items in her hands in disbelief._

 _When he didn't move, she frowned. "Fine. I'll come to you, then."_

 _That disbelief mounted as he watched her cross the room to stand beside him. She seemed reluctant to meet his gaze, however, as she settled on her knees and set to treating and dressing the wound._

 _The witch was very intent on her work, but the gentle, curious strokes of her fingertips over the skin around the wound did not go unnoticed by him. He thought, perhaps, she simply wanted to know what this small, unguarded portion of him felt like._

 _When she finished the dressing, her hands lingered, pressed lightly to him, still. He lowered his gaze to take in her face, finally—for some reason, he hadn't dared watch her expression while she'd been tending his wound. But now, she looked alarmed, confused . . . and perhaps, just bit like she was trying to make herself feel guilty._

 _He broke into her reverie, whatever that might be, by clasping his larger hand around both of hers._

 _Hermione gave a start as she lifted her eyes to meet his. "Will . . . will you have a scar, still?"_

 _He nodded. "My body will keep trying to heal it, but yes."_

 _For a stretch of what seemed a thousand heartbeats, but in reality could not have been more than two or three, she simply stared up at him, unblinking. "So," she said, pausing to clear her throat, "despite my efforts to the contrary, I suppose I've still left a mark on you."_

 _Another thousand-seeming-heartbeats, and then he nodded, something like reverence in his amber eyes as he said, "I suppose you have."_

* * *

Fenrir swallowed hard as he draped his shirt back down over the freshly torn skin. He would _never_ let this heal properly.

 _Never_ let either of them be rid of this reminder of the first moment she'd treated like maybe he was more than just a monster.

* * *

Bucky's eyebrows shot up as she stared up at him, a little bottle of something and a wind of bandages in her dainty hands. "No, _really_ , I'm good."

Frowning, she arched a brow right back at him and started tapping the toes of one small, booted foot against the forest floor.

Regarding her suddenly as though she was some creature he couldn't quite make heads or tails of, he gave her a quick once-over—not the first since they'd met barely ten minutes earlier—and nodded. Though, it was not lost on her that he spoke through lightly clenched teeth as he said, "Fine."

Biting her lip to hold in a grin of satisfaction at getting her way, she watched as he pulled up his sleeve to reveal his bite mark, once more. She crossed to him and, tucking the bandages into her jeans pocket for easy access, took his hand in hers to steady his arm as she treated the wound.

"Is this the only place he got you?"

"I think there are some claw marks, maybe some gouges from rocks on the ground, but, look, I'll be fine, _really_."

She pursed her lips in disbelief, but went on watching her own work as she wound the bandage over his forearm. "Nonsense, you're here, alone, you've clearly not got much in the way of supplies—you must be more daft than you look."

Bucky's brows pinched together at the barb. "Excuse me?"

"It _wasn't_ an insult, in that you don't look stupid, but your lack of preparations suggests you just might be."

His blue eyes narrowed as she finally met his gaze. "It might benefit this conversation for you to know that _that's_ what the fight was about. I caught your _quarry_ stealing some of my stuff. Managed to get away with most of it, too."

Her lips twitching side to side as she rethought her prior observation, she managed to salvage the moment. "Be that as it may, you're still down on supplies, now. So, you should just . . . shut it and accept the help."

He snickered and shook his head at her. "Feisty little thing, aren't you?"

"So I'm told." Hermione nodded in determination at him. "Okay, off with the shirt so I can have a look at you."

Bucky's eyes widened. She didn't get what that would mean, he knew she didn't. "No, really. I'm telling you, I'm—"

"You just had a fist-fight with a _werewolf_ ," she said, as though that sort of thing were an everyday occurrence. "You could be more badly injured than you realize."

"Yeah, no, no, I get that," he responded, with a short chuckle and a shake of his head. "But I'm telling you, I'm _going_ to be fine."

Her expression turned downright menacing as she held his gaze in silence.

Bucky raised a brow at her. "You really don't take no for an answer, do you?"

She shrugged. "I typically don't have to, as _most_ people who know me are aware that I'm usually right about things."

"Fine, have it your way. But, don't blame me if you're shocked by what you see."

Hermione rolled her eyes as he peeled off that lone left glove and removed his jacket. "Well, honestly, I don't see why you're making such a fuss. It's not like you've got anything I haven't . . . ."

Her voice trailed off as he pulled his shirt off over his head. She'd _thought_ he probably had an impressive physique, simply from the way he carried himself, and the width of his shoulders, but now she was jarred—albeit pleasantly so—to see her guess had been correct. Very, _very_ correct.

From the corner of her eye, she did note the unusually life-like metal prosthetic that was his left arm, but she'd seen odder things in her time as a witch, so she didn't pay it very much attention. Instead, she let out a not-terribly-quiet, shuddering breath and shook her head at herself.

And in case all of _that_ wasn't a telling enough reaction to his shirtless appearance, she could feel a flare of warmth in her cheeks, which she only hoped he couldn't really see in the dancing light from the campfire.

"Well, I . . . ." She cleared her throat awkwardly and nodded, marshaling her presence of mind as best she could. "I see some bruising, certainly, and some small cuts. Not as bad as I'd expect. Turn, please."

He tried not to pay much mind to how she didn't seem fazed by the sight of his metal arm as he did as instructed. He hadn't had much time to self-assess between the werewolf getting away, and the witch happening upon him, but he already knew there was some injury to his back that wasn't likely to heal easily. If she hadn't been so insistent, he was sure he could tend to it himself.

"Oh . . . . Oh, _that_ doesn't look good."

"I'm sure it's just a gash. I'll be fine in a few days."

"Really?" she asked, her brows shooting up as she backpedaled a step just to be certain she was seeing the damage correctly. "You'd be fine with a rock lodged in the wound?"

That he wasn't expecting. " _What_?"

"Brace yourself, I imagine this is going to sting." Hermione bit back a frown as she grabbed the blood-slicked bit of stone.

"Hermione? That's your name, right?"

"Mm—hmm."

"Okay, Hermione, don't coddle me, just take it—" He cut himself off with a hissing breath as she pulled the rock from the wound, wincing at the unsettling sensation. "I take it back, that _did_ string."

"Here," she said, reaching an arm around him to place the stone in his right hand. "It's quite sharp, actually. I'm impressed this didn't bother you more."

He shrugged, speaking without thinking, even as he examined the offending object. "You get used to pain after a while."

As he spoke, Hermione withdrew her wand so she could get a better look at his wound. " _Lumos._ " At his words, she couldn't help a small pout curving her lips. "I'm . . . I'm sorry."

"For what?" he asked, though, as he glanced over his shoulder at her, he noted the point of illumination from her wand. "Whoa."

She uttered a quiet laugh. "Light spell." She lowered to her knees and examined the gash more carefully. "And I'm sorry for . . . for whatever it is you've been through that makes your voice sound like that."

Hermione was so focused on treating this larger wound that how his shoulders slumped at her statement was totally lost on her. And, of course, she didn't have the angle to see how his face fell.

He'd known her all of—well, it had to be no longer than half an hour, by now—half an hour, and she'd somehow shown him more compassion in that short span of time than most anyone he'd known had in all his life. Well, with the exception of Steve, of course, but he doubted Captain America could take time away from saving the world at large— _again_ —to help his wayward best friend, who apparently might be turning into a werewolf.

In an attempt to distract himself from both the realization that he didn't know how to feel about the show of kindness, both forced and offered unknowingly, and the feel of her fingertips gently prodding his skin as she tended the wound, he asked, "So, why are you after him?"

For a pained moment, she didn't answer.

"Is it just because he's a werewolf? I mean, is that what your people do?" He let it go unasked if she would be hunting _him_ once they'd dealt with the one who'd bitten him.

"One of my best friends was a werewolf," she said in a quiet voice.

" _Was_?"

"He died in a war."

Bucky closed his eyes as he followed her silent prodding to lift his arms so she could wind the bandage around him. "I'm sorry."

"So is that what we're going to do? Sit around all night, apologizing to one another over things neither of us is responsible for?"

He snickered. "Sounds like a wonderful waste of time. You, um, you didn't answer the question."

"He kidnapped me," she said, as she returned to settle behind him to make sure the dressing was snug, but not _too_ snug.

"Oh."

"It's not . . . ." She paused and let out a sigh as she shook her head.

"Whoa, whoa." He reached around, one of his hands stilling hers as she continued fussing with the already secured bandage.

Startled, she looked up at him. There was something so achingly familiar in this.

 _"Despite my efforts to the contrary, I suppose I've still left a mark on you."_

 _Another thousand-seeming-heartbeats, and then he nodded, something like reverence in his amber eyes as he said, "I suppose you have."_

She gave her head a shake, the memory batting at brain. No, _no!_ Looking at her that way had been part of his ploy, just as she'd spent so much time telling herself.

In the sharp pinprick of light from the tip of her wand, he could see the sheen of dampness in her chestnut eyes. "Hey, hey . . . ." He turned and dropped to sit on his heels before her. "It's okay. You don't even know me, you really don't _have_ to tell me."

Hermione let out a shaky breath and wet her suddenly parched lips with the tip of her tongue. "Actually, if you're joining me on this, which I assume you've not changed your mind about?"

Bucky shook his head.

"Exactly. If you're joining me on this, then you should know the history behind it." She dispelled the light from her wand, and settled back on her own heels, mirroring his position as she replaced the bandages and tiny bottle in the small bag tied around her wrist. "As I said, there was a war, I lost a lot of friends."

"You lose a _lot_ in war," he said.

His voice was heavy with the sort of certainty that came from living a thing, and she understood that she hadn't misread him—he _was_ a soldier. She wasn't sure if she was one, too, but didn't fighting in a war make a person one, whether they wanted the mantle or not? Indelible marks, and all that.

"The other side was . . . well, _bad_ , and their leader fell. We won, and we had always thought that when he died, that would be the end of it. According to Fenrir Greyback—the one who left you that lovely present on your arm—that _wasn't_ going to be the end." She shook her head and forced a sniffle. "I was one of the central figures on our side; myself and my two best friends. They had a plan, that even if their leader fell, they'd deal our side the grievous blow of killing the three of us. Even if they all died to do it, even if they ended up locked away for the rest of their days, they were _going_ to make our side pay for our victory.

"And they were going to start with _me_ , because they knew how much of the upper hand we got on them in a lot of important instances was due to my handiwork. So he, well, as his story went, he took me from the battlefield to protect me from that end, _and_ disrupt the plans of his fellows. Without their leader, there would be no safe respite for werewolves, anyway, so there was no point in him aiding their side any further."

Bucky watched her expression in the flickering light as she spoke. "That was a less than pleasant experience, I take it?"

"From what I'm told, my sudden disappearance from the battlefield did exactly as he'd hoped, and caused enough chaos that they weren't able to get the drop on my friends." She closed her eyes, though unshed tears burned behind her eyelids. "As for the experience? I don't really remember. I _forced_ myself not to remember, so I only know what I was told."

He furrowed his brow, knowing he might be overstepping, but he couldn't help but feel prompted to ask for more information. "And what were you told?"

"That he tortured me, had his way with me . . . ." Why was she telling him all this? Oh, the question, alone, was rubbish. It was because she'd never gotten to speak to anyone who didn't know her, or Greyback's reputation, so he couldn't make judgments when her own certainty on things waned.

She sniffled again opening her glistening eyes to meet his gaze. "I was told I was suffering Stockholm syndrome when they found me, and so I made myself forget everything I _thought_ I knew about those four months he held me captive." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and she wasn't sure if she was speaking to him, or herself, as she continued, "There are times when I have these fleeting memories, still . . . . I thought I'd stripped it all away, but every now and again, I'll remember something . . . . A touch, or a look, or a feeling that tells me there was more to it, but I don't know if I can trust myself about _anything_ that happened."

Bucky kept his smirk to himself as he considered that if she had trouble trusting her own mind, she'd certainly come to the right place for sympathy. "So, are you hunting him to kill him, or to get answers?"

Hermione wiped the tip of her nose with the cuff of her sleeve. "Both. I mean to kill him when I find him, but I _will_ have my answers, first. And, before you ask, I've been hunting him for six months, now."

He nodded. The ferocity in her voice as she spoke what was clearly a pledge to herself a thing he understood _too_ well.

"Anyway," she said, forcing a chipper tone, "full moon is in about three days. Now, while there is a slim chance you won't change, we have to err on the side of caution that you probably _will_. So, we're going to need to find some place _sturdy_ to stash you away for the duration of nights of the full moon."

His eyebrows shot up—finally something was going his way. "As it happens, I was headed to just such a place."

She let her frame droop in relief, unable to believe the luck. "Really?"

Again, Bucky nodded. "It's an abandoned bunker. Used to be used for storage for the military."

"Why were you headed there?"

He dropped his jaw as he simply blinked at her, uncertain he wanted to share.

"Oh, don't you dare." She shook a finger at him. "I just told you why _I'm_ here. Now spill it, Bucky."

He couldn't help a chuckle at the snippy way she said his name. "Okay, fine. You're right. I am . . . holy hell, there's no way to say this without sounding bat-shit crazy."

Hermione bit back a giggle as she offered, "More 'bat-shit crazy' than me telling you I was snatched from the battlefield of a magical war by a werewolf?"

That time, Bucky did smirk, he couldn't help it. "I guess not. I just never imagined trying to sum this all up in a conversation." With a thoughtful pout, he nodded to himself. "I am, well, was, part of an experimental super-soldier program—against my will, if that counts for anything—and was brainwashed to be used as a weapon. There's a notebook floating around that has the codes that can be used to trigger my kill-mode, and that bunker's one of the locations where it might be hidden. I've managed to destroy _all_ other traces of what the programming put in my head, since attempts to _de_ program me have failed. So, all that's left, between me and being free of what they did to me, is that damn notebook."

"Experimental super-soldier . . ." she echoed, blinking rapidly a few times. She understood the brainwashing well enough; what he wanted to do was akin to stripping the knowledge of the Imperius Curse from the Wizarding world. It was a logic she could definitely see the point of.

She could tell he was bracing for her disbelief the way she'd braced for his when she'd told him he'd been bitten by a werewolf. Yet, she only turned her attention to the metal arm she'd largely ignored until now.

"Is that why you have that?" she finally asked.

She didn't inquire as to _which_ military, and he was glad not to have to answer.

"Yes, and no, but that's a whole 'nother story." He shrugged, noting that she watched the red star adoring that shoulder go up and down. "I was surprised you didn't ask about it sooner."

"Other than the fact that asking someone about their prosthetic limb is typically considered rude when you don't know them very well?"

His mouth twitched to one side, he nodded. "Yeah, other than that."

"Oh." She shifted closer to him, unable to stop herself from trying to examine the fusing where the skin met the metal—now that he'd essentially invited her to ask about it. "Well, I knew a man who'd . . . sacrificed his hand and had it replaced with one made of silver, once. Of course, he also lived in the form of a rat for twelve years—willingly—so, I suppose I could say I've seen a lot, too."

Bucky turned his head, watching her face as she examined the seared skin. "What, like a wererat?" Really, he'd just been bitten by a werewolf, a wererat didn't seem all that much a stretch.

She laughed, even as she reached out, tracing over the damaged flesh with curious fingertips. "No, not exactly. Some wizards and witches learn how to turn themselves into animals, his form was that of a rat."

"Why would anyone _choose_ to be a rat?"

"You don't really chose your form."

"I bet you have a _lot_ of interesting stories," he said, amusement lacing his tone.

Hermione grinned as she nodded. "That is a bet you'd win, Sir."

Her brow furrowed as she traced over his skin, one final time, before she let her fingers still, pressing to the hollow of his shoulder. God, a scar like this . . . it must've been miserably painful for a _very_ long time. It made her wonder—it looked like a burn, and burns could hurt for years after they'd healed.

"Does this still hurt?" She lifted her gaze to his, and found herself caught off-guard by how close their faces were.

"Sometimes," he said in a gravelly whisper, his breath warm as it brushed her skin.

Hermione felt it in that moment, as a bloom of warmth flooded her cheeks and she forced a gulp down her throat. There was a spark, bright and clear as day, between them.

And the way he bit into his bottom lip—seemingly without realizing how enticing the gesture was—certainly invited trouble. The sort she wouldn't mind getting into, were there not more serious matters looming over their heads.

She pulled back, clearing her throat. "So, there's _that_."

Bucky nodded, dropping his gaze as a loud breath rattled out of him. "Yeah."

Hermione bounced up to her feet, backpedaling as she started rooting around inside the little bag on her wrist. "Well, how far are we from that bunker?"

"I, um—" Bucky shook his head, still trying to get his bearings after that little moment. It had really been _way_ too long since he'd been in close quarters with a female—well, barring combat situations, of course. "I expect to reach it by tomorrow afternoon."

"Okay, great, so we'll . . . we'll get some rest and start out first thing."

He watched in silence as she pulled out a small bundle of fabric and tapped it with her wand, causing said bundle to puff out into a full-size sleeping bag. All business, now, the witch crossed to the side of the fire pit opposite where his own bag was, and placed hers down.

"I'm just going to . . . place some protective enchantments around us, so we can sleep without anyone troubling happening upon us."

Bucky nodded—he was just _done_ with any more questions for tonight.

"I guess I'll—"

"You'll put your shirt back on, troublemaker," she said over her shoulder as she circled the meager campsite.

A snicker was evident in his voice as he said, "Yes, Ma'am."

Hermione bit her lip, holding in a laugh of her own as she thought she didn't hate the sound of _that_.


	3. Dangerous Types

**Chapter Three**

Dangerous Types

Fenrir awoke in a groggy haze. Pulling himself to sit up, he winced as he pressed his hand to his head. He'd not slept well, at all. He knew why, too.

This was the closest she'd gotten to him these six months, and he knew he couldn't let her get any closer. Not while she was so determined he was the enemy.

The disparity between his feelings and the reality of the current situation was fertile ground for lousy sleep, that was for certain.

He knew he should be on the move, now. He should be gathering up the nicked supplies and putting as much ground between himself and his huntress as he could. But he could not.

She wanted to capture him . . . .

Fenrir felt his breathing slow as it dawned on him. If she captured him, maybe somewhere _between_ capture and kill he could get her to see reason.

He knew by now how her mind worked, he thought with a nod. Though, truthfully, at the moment, logic was giving him a headache due to his restless night's sleep.

He could not simply surrender, no. She would think that a trap, a ruse to trick her into a false sense of security.

No, he needed to keep moving. He needed to make her _think_ he was still trying to evade her if any attempt at getting through to her was to work.

And he needed to stay within some range of her and her new companion, anyway, if he was to gauge how to handle that creature. He knew from the blood in his mouth after their altercation that he'd bitten that man.

His wolf recognized Hermione, by now. He'd been able to train that part of himself to not harm her, but he knew the same could not be said for his most recent victim. There was no guarantee he would become a werewolf, but Fenrir needed to remain near enough in case he did, in case he turned on Hermione.

He had to be close enough to jump in and protect her from the other— _potential_ —werewolf, if needed.

Bloody hell. He'd be there to shield her, and she'd probably take the opportunity to kill him. Fenrir chuckled darkly at himself as he shook his head. Once he was the most savage werewolf ever known to Wizarding Britain, _now_ he was likely to lose his life to a tiny witch all because he could not bring himself to harm her.

 _Shit_. His life had been so much easier before she'd gone and made him care about things.

* * *

When Hermione opened her eyes, she could tell by the sun's position that it was much later in the morning than she'd wanted to set out. It was still morning, but even so, she'd not expected to oversleep, or to sleep so deeply. She couldn't remember the last time she could honestly say she'd woken up feeling rested like this.

It . . . had to be the wards she'd placed, or something about the mountain air, maybe. She could not dare to think it was anything about the presence of this man she'd just met that had made her feel safe enough to sleep deeply.

As she sat up and stretched, she noticed Bucky was not in his sleeping bag. It was still there, and he'd yet to roll it up, as she'd expected a military sort would do once they no longer had need of it and expected to be on the move, soon.

So he couldn't be far. With a quiet sigh, she closed her eyes and listened. One of the—limited—benefits of having spent those four months in the woods with Fenrir, despite the self-inflicted holes in her memory, was that she'd learned to trust her senses when she was in the forest. She was a witch, her magic a tie to the earth, even if conventional teaching on witchcraft and wizardry forgot those roots.

Last night, she'd been too distracted by her agitation at being so close to catching Fenrir that she'd ignored that lesson.

If she calmed, and listened, to the air, the earth, the trees, she could get an awareness of what was around her that would give her senses just a _little_ nudge. Had she known about grounding herself like this sooner, she imagined her time camping out, hunting Horcruxes, would have been _much_ easier dealt with.

That was when she heard, beneath the buzzing and chirping of bugs and birds, and the rustling of critters through the brush, the sound of splashing. A more active sound of water than the running of the stream she'd detected last night.

A thousand silly programs that featured someone happening upon a person bathing in a lake tumbled through her head. That gave her pause as she pushed open her sleeping bag and stood. Well, it sort of gave her pause . . . there was an undeniable sense of wanting to happen upon her new traveling companion in that sort of state of undress, for sure. But she also didn't want to invade his space—that had already happened quite enough last night, and was likely to happen more on its own as they traveled together, there was no need to force things.

But then, shaking her head, she started toward the stream. She'd seen the stream last night—it was quite pretty, and a bit on the wide-side, but nowhere near deep enough for a grown man to bathe in, that was for certain. There was a twitch in the back of her mind at that thought, but she pushed it aside.

Though, she was mindful that sometime this evening, she was probably going to have to figure out something of the sort of herself. Living in such a rustic situation, for at least the next handful of days until the full moon had come and gone, was bound to leave her sweaty and, well, frankly feeling _gross_ , at some point. The more she kept atop simple matters of hygiene, the fewer and further between instances of that feeling would be.

As she rounded the batch of trees that blocked the view of the stream from his—well, now their—paltry little campsite, she saw him. His back to her, he sat on his heels at the edge of the stream. Sure enough, he was only undressed from the waist up.

His shirt and jacket in a neat bundle beside him, he was quite obviously washing up with handfuls of fresh water. Among the bundle of fabric was the bandage she'd wound around him last night. He'd clearly washed the gash on his lower back, and she was surprised to see that it was much smaller than it had been when she'd tended the injury.

But then, he was a super-soldier, and he'd assured her he'd be fine in a few days. The dittany had likely boosted whatever his body's natural—or augmented, whatever—healing capability was.

He tensed slightly as she drew near, and she knew he was aware of her proximity before he'd even heard her footfalls. She had a feeling they'd each done the dance of both hunter _and_ prey, before. He'd only told her half the truth last night, she was sure—he'd not just been a weapon to the people who'd made him this way, he'd been armor more than once. A deliberate target to draw attention while less-sturdy individuals ran for safety that as not afforded him.

He turned to look at her. "Morning. You usually sleep so late?"

Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but no words would come. Just as last night with him catching her hands as she patched his wound, there was something achingly familiar in this.

Bucky had moved so that she had view of his chest and abdomen, his hands braced on his hips. While she'd love for it to be something so simple as being caught off-guard by the glistening droplets running along the lines of his muscles, highlighting the defined cuts rather beautifully, that had precious little to do with the sensation of her heart falling into her stomach.

 _No, no, no_. She heard Bucky's voice, calling her name with a note of concern, but the memory was swallowing her whole.

* * *

 _Hermione had awoken with their discussion from the night before in her head, still. She'd not slept well because of it, in fact._

 _"Stop jumping, already," Fenrir had snapped, frowning as he bandaged the cut on her hand._

 _"I can't help it, given the identity of the person dressing my wound."_

 _He snickered, a dark, almost feral sound, and shook his head. "I thought we went over this. I've no intention of biting you unless you ask for it."_

 _"And I should trust that you were telling me the truth?" Her brows shot up as he pulled back. She expected him to do some weird thing, like lick her blood from his fingers, or take a sniff of the crimson droplets on his skin. Instead, he merely brushed them off on his trousers, without a second thought. "How do I know you're not just lulling me so that I won't fight it if you make that decision for me."_

 _Fenrir smirked, bracing an elbow on his knee as he shook his head. "Because I've come to understand you, believe it or not. You don't let other people make decisions for you. Were I to bite you without your permission, you'd_ never _forgive me."_

 _Hermione frowned, now. "Of course I wouldn't, but that's not true. Lots of people have—"_

 _"No." He stood, but she followed the movement, so he continued to hold her gaze as he went on. "I know of your exploits. Your little pre-war preparations, all that. Lots of stories made the rounds about_ Potter's Mudblood _. You didn't let people make decisions for you. People_ put _you in situations that left you with clear choices, that's not the same thing. You made decisions that benefited others, even at the expense of your own safety."_

 _She shifted uncomfortably. That did sound like her._

 _"You don't just let things happen to you. You_ make _them happen, or they don't happen, at all. Do you know what that makes you?"_

 _Certainly didn't feel that way with that scar from Bellatrix Lestrange on her throat, but then, she supposed she could've told that mad cow anything she'd wanted to hear to make the pain stop. She hadn't. So, in a way, she'd_ had _control of that situation, even if the outcome had been unpleasant._

 _The conversation was unexpectedly making the witch feel incredibly vulnerable. "What?"_

 _"An alpha female. If I were to bite you, turn you, without your say so, you'd hunt my arse to the ends of the earth, and we both know it."_

 _She dropped her gaze, chewing her bottom lip. That sounded like her, too._

 _"Get some sleep, now. I'll clean that up," he said, nodding to the broken dish before he backpedaled and closed the curtain on her little, makeshift bedroom._

 _She pulled back the curtain, now, to find the place empty. He was right about her. She didn't want him to be right, but she knew he was._

 _And unresolved conversations never had sat well with her._

 _Climbing out of her cot, she crossed the cabin to the door and proceeded outside. They were camped out on the edge of a lake, though, truthfully, she had no idea which lake, or that might give her some indication of where they actually were._

 _She'd often glimpsed him from the window in the bright and early morning hours bathing out here. Unlike her, he would never bother to find a secluded spot behind some trees, he just dove in and swam around for a bit until he found a place he liked._

 _Rather more like he was part fish than part wolf, but then, didn't canines like to swim?_

 _A rock jutted from the surface of the lake, the perfect place to perch. Hermione couldn't imagine how far out he'd gone this time if she couldn't see him anywhere. So, she waded out to the rock and sat to wait._

 _And nearly jumped out of her skin at the sudden heavy splashing of him emerging from the water only a few meters from her._

 _His amber eyes went wide as he met her gaze. Clearly, she'd surprised him just as much. "What're you doing out here?"_

 _"I . . . ." She shook her head, the words dying on her lips. Rather suddenly, her throat felt a bit dry and her skin flushed as she took in the sight of him. Of all that water dripping over muscles she'd never thought she'd develop an appreciation for._

 _She was suddenly very aware of her breathing, of every inch of her skin as she watched his nostrils flare and his eyes narrow. Much the look of a hunter scenting prey, yet, she could not find it in herself to move._

 _She understood how that feral side of him worked, and she knew it wasn't_ prey _she smelled like to him, just now._

 _It seemed the entire world stilled around her as he made his way toward her. He moved slow, even for the impediment of the hip-deep water. But then she realized it was not without purpose—he was giving the time to collect herself, for her to come to her senses and stop him._

 _Yet, all she said as he finally drew near enough to touch her was, "You were right about me."_

 _His gaze searched her face, as though he'd suddenly lost his understanding of her._

 _Reaching up, she cupped his jaw with her hands. Her fingers looked impossibly delicate against his roughened features and the contrast brought a wisp of a grin to her lips. There was so many things wrong with this._

 _So many reasons to put distance between them._

 _Yet, the feel of his damp skin against hers, the sensation of his breath, warm as it ghosted over her wrists, made all that fall away. Two months she'd been here, and she felt like this was the first time she was_ really _seeing him._

 _It had been her. She drew him closer, still, the first sweep of her lips over his chaste, and exploratory._

 _He seemed afraid to touch her, she thought, as he held his hands above the water. But then, he sighed, the exhalation mingling with her innocent kiss._

 _The only thing that made sense to her right then was getting closer to him. She inched forward, shifting to drape her legs over the rock, on either side of him, as she tipped her head, darting her tongue between his lips._

 _Fenrir all but melted into her, then, a groan tearing from his throat as he wrapped his arms around her. He could feel his nails sinking into her skin through her flimsy cotton shirt as he pulled her tight against him, but she didn't seem to mind, rather, she uttered a pleading whimper and broke the kiss to nip at his jaw._

 _She'd circled his neck with her arms, her own nails digging into his shoulders. Between her little teeth scraping at his skin and her scratches, he was in a haze, now._

 _He nudged her head back, bringing his mouth to her throat._

 _Yet, she stilled, even as she'd wrapped her legs around him._

 _He lifted his head to look at her. "Was I hurting you?"_

 _"Yes, but that's not the problem. Your . . . your teeth," she said, swallowing hard. "What if you bite me by accident?"_

 _Fenrir shook his head, trying to focus despite the dazed look in his amber eyes. "I won't break the skin. I promised you, not until you ask me."_

 _Hermione watched his expression for a few moments longer before she nodded._

 _Rather suddenly, her shirt was off of her and sinking into the water beside him. And, oh dear Lord, he was assisting her to struggle out of her jeans._

 _As bare as he was, now, there was something so delicious in the way the rock scraped her skin as he pulled her against him, once more._

* * *

It had been _her._

The memory must've flashed through her mind in a heartbeat, because as she came back to her senses, she was hitting the ground on her knees. Bucky was on his feet, rushing to her side. So fast the scene had rushed over her, she must've blacked out for a moment, there, as it had happened.

Was it true? Had it been her? Had she _initiated_ intimacy with Fenrir?

Was that really the cause of her bruising, of the scratches? That she _liked_ a little pain?

The bites that never broke the skin . . . . They weren't from torture? _No, no . . . I_ must _be remembering wrong . . . . I have to be, I couldn't . . . . We were_ not _. . . ._

She couldn't even finish the thought, because she had no idea what _to_ think of the myriad revelations that single memory had brought washing over her.

But now, as she trembled and tears gathered in her eyes in the wake of her own recollections betraying her, she felt herself being moved and arms go around her. The next thing she knew, her head was on Bucky's shoulder as she tried to catch her breath.

Had that really taken so much out of her? It only made her wonder, was it the memory, itself, that caused her this, or how hard she was fighting against it?

"You okay? What just happened?"

Sniffling, she pulled back a little, just enough that her mouth was not muffled by his shoulder. "I just . . . seeing you at the water like that, it made me remember something, but I—I just don't know. I feel like I can't trust my own mind."

He nodded, holding in a sympathetic chuckle—he didn't want her to misinterpret the mirthful sound. "I know that feeling."

"I just . . . what if I'm wrong? What if the person I should really be hating is myself? What do I do with all this anger? What if I forgive him, only to find out I'm right? What if I kill him, and find out I was wrong? I can't believe I'm so confused! I had thought it all _clear_ , before." Her body seemed to droop in his hold as she let out a exasperated sigh.

"Hey, isn't that part of all this?" Bucky shrugged, aware of the shift of his skin against her in that subtle motion. "To learn what really happened to you? We'll find him, okay?"

"You sound so sure."

He cracked a half-grin. "I know how important answers can be."

As she came to her senses, she realized she was sitting in his lap. His cybernetic arm was pressed against her on one side, but it seemed she hadn't noticed. It didn't feel cold and metallic, as she'd expected, and without realizing, she turned to examine it.

"It really doesn't feel like metal," she said, thoughtlessly shifting to trace her fingers along the perfect silver segments.

"Um . . . ." Bucky let out a breath and shook his head, all too aware of her touch. "That's because of its design. I can make it feel like a real arm, create a projection over it to make it look real."

"So why don't you?"

As he'd done last night, he watched her face as she watched her examination of him. "I'm afraid I'll forget? That I'll trick myself into thinking it's normal."

"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have asked."

Again, he shook his head. "No, it's fine. Expected, I guess. But, uh, I should probably tell you that tickles."

She snapped her gaze up to meet his, her chestnut eyes wide. "You can feel this?"

Biting into his bottom lip, he nodded. "It's how I'm able to gauge damage, and maintain awareness of it."

"Of course, how silly of me not to wonder about that." Dear God, why was she talking, still?

She was sitting in his lap, closer than she'd been to him last night when she'd examined his arm the first time around. And, suddenly, she was acutely aware of him—of the way he breathed, of the way his blue eyes searched her face, again and again.

She wasn't sure if it was out of curiosity, or to prove his point, but he lifted his left hand, then, cupping her cheek. Indeed, even that felt like the touch of a real hand.

Hermione tipped her head a bit, pressing her skin a little more firmly into his palm.

He smirked. "Yeah, I can feel that."

Unlike that troublesome memory, Hermione couldn't be certain who moved first as she found herself kissing Bucky. His arms circled her and she wound hers around his neck, clinging to him.

His explorations were hungry, and eager, and stole her breath. Even as she kissed him back, just as eager as she caressed his tongue with her own, she thought she must be mad to confine herself this way.

Slipping her arms back down, she trailed her fingers over him. His chest, his sides, his back—anywhere she could reach of his bare skin. She'd been positively itching the run her hands over his muscles since the moment he'd whipped off his shirt last night, she knew that, now.

He broke the kiss, dropping head back to catch his breath. The way she shot forward to nip affectionately at his throat brought a chuckle out of him.

"This is a _really_ bad idea," he said, that laugh still there, edging his voice.

Pulling back to meet his gaze, her own breathing a bit heavy, she asked, "Why?"

He arched a brow. Had she even been paying attention?

Hermione laughed, as much at herself as at his expression. "Aside from the obvious."

Those blue eyes of his narrowed in what was almost a pleading look—they'd only just met, how the hell were they already here? Huh, Bucky supposed there was something to be said for _chemistry,_ after all.

"I'm a dangerous man, Hermione," he said, his voice low, his tone simple.

She thought again of her observation from just a little while earlier. Someone who'd been both hunter and prey.

With a short, self-deprecating giggle, she shook her head. "It seems I just might have a type."

He couldn't deny he'd been watching her face as she spoke. God, why'd he stop her, again? Shit, priorities, right. Biting his lip once more, he cleared his throat. Okay, so _maybe_ he liked the way she always seemed to flick her gaze down to watch is teeth sink into his lip when he did that.

"Let's get moving, and revisit this after the full moon passes."

In spite of herself, Hermione's brow shot up so high, they nearly touched her hairline.

Bucky burst out in surprised laughter at that face she made. Yeah, now two days 'til the full moon, three day moon phase . . . he wasn't sure they'd make it five days keeping their hands off each other, either.

"Okay," he said, shaking his head. "After we find the bunker."

The witch thought that over—he'd said he expected to reach the place by this afternoon. Or rather, since she'd overslept, it would probably push it closer to this evening, but a matter of hours still seemed _far_ more manageable than a matter of days.

And certainly seemed far better than trying to avoid their attraction. Sating it while they handled their other problems—because she was going to help him find his notebook, even if it wasn't in that bunker, but then she thought he already suspected as much of her—was probably the best way to manage the issue.

"Done." She popped up out of his lap to go pack up what little camp they had.

Feeling playful—though he couldn't rightly recall when the last time was he felt _playful_ —he reached up as she walked away.

Hermione let out a little, surprised squeak at him swatting her on the bum. Looking at him over her shoulder as she continued toward their campsite, she said, "I'm so going to get you back for that."

Climbing to his feet to go retrieve his things from beside the stream, he said, "Oh, I'm _counting_ on it."


	4. Dulcet Memories

**Chapter Four**

Dulcet Memories

 _"Fenrir, slow down, please."_

 _Sighing, he backpedaled a few steps and waited for her to catch up. "I thought you said you were doing better with traversing these woods, now."_

 _Hermione frowned, shaking her head as she scowled at him. "I said I was getting more familiar with our surroundings, that doesn't mean I'm ready to chase a_ werewolf _through them."_

 _He barked out a laugh and pulled her close, dropping his forehead down to press lightly against hers. "You considered that a chase? I was barely even walking fast."_

 _Smirking, she lowered her voice to a whisper. "Liar."_

 _"Prove it . . . ." His voice trailed off as the grin faded from his lips. Holding a silencing finger against her mouth, he turned his head slow to scan the area behind him._

 _She looked at the ground, picking her way carefully through the brush and forest debris to put herself behind Fenrir without creating any extraneous sounds that might distract him. Placing a gentle hand against his back, she gauged the tension in his muscles. Taut as metal cables . . . ._

 _He was ready to fight_ something _. Not good._

 _She could hear the soft rush of air as he inhaled deep, trying to catch the scent of whatever it was. After a moment, the tension in him began to ease and he let out a breath. "Just some deer."_

 _Nodding, Hermione exhaled, herself, barely aware she'd held her breath that entire time. As she dropped her hand back to her side, he turned toward her so that she found herself staring up into his face quite unexpectedly. He wore a curious expression that prompted her to ask, "What?"_

 _A smug half-smile playing on his lips, he said, "You moved behind me."_

 _The witch arched a brow. "So?"_

 _"So? You were actually_ letting _me protect you. 'S a big step for you."_

 _She uttered a scoffing sound in the back of her throat. "Well, excuse me for not having a wand! I've no real way to defend myself. Did you think,_ perhaps, _hiding behind you only made sense, then, on an instinctive level?"_

 _"Well, now . . . talking to a werewolf about instincts. You_ do _know my sweet spots." Humor edged his growling voice._

 _Hermione laughed, slapping his shoulder lightly. "But you know . . . ." Her expression sobered as she held his gaze. "At some point, we're going to be found. They're going to throw you in Azkaban, and they might lock me up in the mental ward at St. Mungo's for not wanting to leave, but . . . I don't. I don't want to leave. I know that sounds so mad. Worse, though, it feels so selfish."_

 _Fenrir's brows drew upward. "Selfish?"_

 _Shaking her head, she turned a little, letting her attention wander about the trees while she spoke. "It's so unfair. I'm out here 'playing house' with a wanted criminal while our world repairs itself from the aftermath of war. I should be helping, and you should be—"_

 _"Imprisoned?"_

 _Her shoulders slumped as she snapped her gaze back to his. "No! I was_ going _to say you should be as far from me as you can possibly get."_

 _He threw back his head and let out another of his rich, barking chuckles. "Get away from you? What, on purpose?_ Not _going to happen."_

 _"But that's what I'm saying. You don't think clearly when you're around me. I mean . . . you did whisk me off the battlefield, knowing what it would mean for you if you got caught."_

 _The werewolf sighed. Slipping one arm around her waist, he pulled her close. With his free hand, he tapped his finger against the tip of her nose and then started combing through her wild locks with surprisingly delicate strokes. "I knew perfectly well what I was doing—I was saving your life."_

 _"Not the point. You barely knew me, but you were willing to risk imprisonment if you were caught, or the wrath of the other Death Eaters if you failed. Something about me makes you go just a little bit mad, Fenrir Greyback."_

 _"Oh, but in the best possible way."_

 _She smirked in spite of herself. "Still. We should at least have some sort of plan for when we're found."_

 _"I plan on taking you and running again. Sound good?"_

 _Her eyes drifted closed at the feel of him raking his fingers through her hair. She liked these little wolfish things he did for her—he was seeing to her like a true wolf might groom their mate. "It would, but chances are when that day comes, I'm going to have to leave here. I'm going to have to leave_ you _."_

 _Scooping her up, he held her against him and assisted her to wrap her legs around his hips as he said, "Well, that day's not today."_

 _Hermione let him take her worries away as he carried her back to the cabin, undressing her and capturing her mouth in rough, hungry kisses as he walked._

* * *

He couldn't lie to himself. Creeping along amongst the trees, just close enough to keep an ear on them, Fenrir had no way around listening to their conversation—no way around hearing her voice.

He couldn't pretend hearing her laugh, hearing her speak in that girlish tone—the one edged with a hint of flirtatiousness—as she chatted away with that _thing_ he'd bitten wasn't the most wretchedly painful feeling he'd ever experienced. Honestly, the pair was hiking through a forest they were well aware contained a notoriously _savage_ werewolf, why weren't they more cautious, rather than acting as though they were on some ruddy, casual nature stroll?

Sinking back against a nearby tree, he inhaled deep of the earthy scents surrounding him. He needed the grounding of that action. He had to stop working himself up like this; a temper flare would only cause him to act thoughtlessly, and then this entire effort would be wasted.

Though, now that he was stopped, now that he was giving himself a moment to really let his environment sink in, he noticed the foliage was getting thicker. The forest, itself was growing denser and darker the further along they moved, and there was some scent buried beneath the smells of soil and wild life that didn't quite fit.

Something man-made?

Here? In the midst of all _this_?

A grimace marring his features, Fenrir shook his head. Starting back on his path trailing them once more, he felt a coil of unease wind in the pit of his stomach.

What, exactly, were Hermione and this . . . _Bucky_ creature searching for?

* * *

"So . . . you know something about my past heartaches, I suppose whatever _really_ happened with Fenrir, there was a point at which I genuinely—or, at least genuinely believed—I cared for him." She gingerly picked her way through a particularly messy tangle of tree roots that had broken up through the forest floor as she spoke. "What about you?"

Bucky halted midstride, his mouth pulling to one side as he considered how to answer that. He could certainly lie about his past, but he didn't want to lie to this girl; as far as he was concerned, the omissions and minor misdirections he'd had given her, already, felt like too much.

His pursed lips twitching side to side, he made a gesture that was half nod, half shake of his head before he started. "No judgements, right?"

The witch uttered a wicked-sounding snicker. "Oh, I don't recall agreeing to that . . . but seeing as you've not judged me for what may, or may not, have happened between myself and a possibly-mad werewolf, I'll graciously say 'yes, no judgements.'"

"Well," he said, gesturing toward his metallic arm with a wave of his other hand, "before this, I was, um, a bit of a ladies' man."

"Oh, really? Should I fear for my virtue?"

He couldn't help but laugh—loudly—at that. "The girl who was shacked up with a werewolf? Not sure you've got any virtue left."

If he hadn't said that with genuine humor in his voice, she might've been insulted. As it was, she let out a laugh of her own in response. "Low blow, sir!"

Shaking his head, he shrugged. "You did kinda bring that one on yourself."

"I suppose I did. Point, Bucky."

"Thank you."

"But, um . . . ." She followed him around a particularly thick stand of trees to what looked like a thin path—not visible unless one was standing directly in front of it, and even then, only barely. "And no one after? I mean, you know, besides me, since I think we've already clearly established you and I are, well, _something_."

A relaxed grin lighting his features, he stepped into the path and glanced over his shoulder at her as he reached back to capture her hand in his and lead her along behind him. "We definitely are something. But, after what happened to me, there was Natasha."

"Natasha? Is she . . . is she dead?"

He frowned, but kept his attention in front of him as he swatted a low branch out of his way. "No, why?"

Hermione shrugged, careful to watch their footing as they went. "You speak her name with a certain amount of reverence. That's usually reserved for lost loved ones."

"Well, then that fits. I did lose her, but more because I let her go. I had to, for her own good." With a weighted sigh, he hurried on before she could wonder. "She was someone in my past, taken and trained by the same people who took me. In fact, I helped train her, that's how we met. Witty, fiery." He paused to laugh. "Pretty much all the traits someone expects to come with red hair."

Her eyebrows shot up as she laughed. "Oh, I do know about those gingers. Used to fancy one before all this happened—Ronald. My best friend Harry is dating Ron's sister. But well, it's sort of an awkward situation, him being head over heels for a redhead."

"Why?"

"His mum was a redhead, too. Died when he was little, but according to some photographs we've got, the two even look a little bit alike . . . ."

"Oh." After a moment, Bucky halted, glancing back at her over his shoulder with a cringe. " _Oh_."

Crinkling the bridge of her nose, she nodded. "Yeah, we don't bring up the resemblance much. As I said, awkward."

Shaking his head, he looked forward, and started them moving along, once more. "Yeah, remind me to tell you sometime about my best friend. He's dating the niece of his first girlfriend."

At that, Hermione clamped her lips together and simply nodded. She was familiar enough with pure-blood society, and she doubted anyone in Wizarding Britain would bat an eye at that type of relationship, even if she was weirded out by it, a bit.

In the middle of the thicket was a small, but unexpected, clearing. Relinquishing his hold on her hand, Bucky directed her attention to circular grate in the center that nearly blended with the forest floor around it. Reaching down, he gripped his metal fingers into the grate and wrenched it loose.

She winced at the whine of tearing metal, though could not help but be impressed at how he easily hefted the grate and tossed it aside. Nearly like the bloody thing weighed no more than the average frisbee.

As she watched him straighten up, showing no sign of strain whatsoever, she cleared her throat. "So I've got to ask . . . that strength, is it just the arm, or . . . ?"

"Huh?" Looking down at his hands, he laughed and shook his head. "Oh, yeah, no. That's _me_. Part of the experiment. Somethings still hurt, though, so it's just easier to do those things with the metal hand for obvious reasons."

Nodding, she stepped over to the grate, curiosity getting the better of her. Slipping the fingers of both hands around it, she tried to lift even one side. It barely budged more than a few millimeters—despite putting all her strength into it— and she let it drop with visible reluctance. Not that it was very much of a drop.

When she turned back toward Bucky, she found him watching her with an amused grin on his face. "Really?"

She shrugged. "Well, I _had_ to check." Hermione gave him a once over, ignoring the sensation of her cheeks flushing as she found a new appreciation for his build; something she hadn't thought possible given how very much she'd appreciated it, _already_. "Okay, let's go."

Snickering and shaking his head, he gestured toward the metal rungs that led down into the bunker. "Ladies first."


End file.
